Memory Dump

by Lane Adamson

I have this friend
(if you want to call him that)
who takes pictures of his excrement
stored in neat albums
by date of defecation

not even Polaroids
or digitals
but 35-millimeter glossies
(developed god knows where
but minimum wage is not enough
for that job)

I don't know the reason
I guess he misses them
feels some fond fecal attachment
maybe it's as close as he's going to get
to having children

I know he gives them names
(some of them need their own postal codes)
and tells proud tales
of their creation

in public stalls he often leaves them
for the next visitor to admire
I think he waits outside
(time permitting)
to hear the amazed exclamations
and songs of offal awe

I find myself imagining
the executor of his estate
going through the files and folders
of this man's life and finding
the collection
the coprophiliac codex
the memory dump
(if you will)

and all his accomplishments
achievements
and accolades
will be reduced
to this:

a pile of shit